1858.12 理想的趋向

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The Ideal Tendency
DECEMBER 1858 ISSUE
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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. II.-DECEMBER, 1858.-NO. XIV.

WE are all interested in Art; yet few of us have taken pains to justify the delight we feel in it. No philosophy can win us away from Shakspeare, Plato, Angelo, Beethoven, Goethe, Phidias,-from the masters of sculpture, painting, music, and metaphor. Their truth is larger than any other,-too large to be stated directly and lodged in systems, theories, definitions, or formulas. They suggest and assure to us what cannot be spoken. They communicate life, because they do not endeavor to measure life. Philosophy will present the definite; Art refers always to the vast,-to that which cannot be comprehended, but only enjoyed and adored. Art is the largest expression. It is not, like Science, a basket in which meat and drink may be carried, but a hand which points toward the sky. Our eyes follow its direction, and our souls follow our eyes. Man needs only to be shown an open space. He will rise into it with instant expansion. We are made partakers of that illimitable energy. Only poetry can give account of poetry, only Art can justify Art; and we cannot hope to speak finally of this elastic Truth, to draw a circle around that which is vital, because it has in it something of infinity,-but we may hope to remove a doubt growing out of the very largeness which exalts and refreshes us. Art is not practical. It offers no precept, but lies abroad like Nature, not to be grasped and exhausted. Neither is it anxious about its own reception, as though any man could long escape the benefit which it brings. Every principle of science, every deduction of philosophy, is a tool. Our very religion, as we dare to name it, is a key which opens the heavens to admit myself and family. Art offers only life; but perhaps that will appear worth taking without looking beyond. Can we look beyond? Life is an end in itself, and so better than any tool.


What is that which underlies all arts as their essence, the thing to be expressed and celebrated? What is poetry, the creation from which the artist is named? We shall answer boldly: it is no shaping of forms, but a making of man. Nature is a plenum, is finished, and the Divine account with her is closed; but man is only yet a chick in the egg. With him it is still the first day of creation, and he has not received the benediction of a completed work. And yet the completion is involved and promised in our daily experience. Man is a perpetual seeker. He sees always just before him his own power, which he must hasten to overtake. He weighs himself often in thought; yet it is not his present, but a presumptive value, of which he is taking account. We are continually entering into our future, and it is so near us, we are already in every hour so full of it, that we draw without fraud on the credit of to-morrow. The student who has bought his first law-book is already a great counsellor. With the Commentaries he carries home consideration and the judicial habit. Some wisdom he imbibes through his pores and those of the sheepskin cover. Now he is grave and prudent, a man of the world and of authority; but if he had chosen differently, and brought home the first book of Theology, his day would have been tinted with other colors. For every choice carries a future involved in itself, and we begin to taste that when we take our course toward it. The habit of leaning forward and living in advance of himself has made its mark upon every man. We look not at the history or performance of the stranger, but at his pretensions. These are written in his dress, his air and attitude, his tone and occupation. The past is already nothing, the present is sliding away; to know any man, we must keep our eyes out in advance on the road he is following. For man is an involuntary, if not a willing traveller. Time does not roll from under his feet, but he is carried along with the current, and can never again be where or what he was. Nothing in his experience can ever be quite repeated. If yon see the same trees and hills, they do not appear the same from year to year. Yesterday they were new and strange; you and they were young together. To-day they are familiar and disregarded. Soon they will be old friends, prattling to gray hairs of the brown locks and bounding breath of youth.

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The pioneer of our growth is Imagination. Desire and Hope go on before into the wilderness of the unknown; they open paths; they make a clearing; they build and settle firmly before we ourselves in will and power arrive at this opening, but they never await our coming. They are the “Fore-runners,” off again deeper into the vast possibility of being. The boy walks in a dream of to-morrow. Two bushels of hickorynuts in his bag are no nuts to him, but silver shillings; yet neither are the shillings shillings, but shining skates, into which they will presently be transmuted. Already he is on the great pond by the roaring fire, or ringing away into distant starry darkness with a sparkling brand. Already, before his first skates are bought, before he has seen the coin that buys them, he is dashing and wheeling with his fellows, a leader of the flying train.


That early fore-reaching is a picture of our entire activity. “Care is taken,” said Goethe, “that the trees do not grow into the sky”; but man is that tree which must outgrow the sky and lift its top into finer air and sunshine. The essential seed is Growth; not shell and bark, nor kernel, but a germ which pierces the soil and lifts the stone. Spirit is such a germ, and perpetual reinforcement is its quality; so that the great Being is known to us as a becoming Creator, adding himself to himself, and life to life, in perpetual emanation.

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The boy’s thought never stops short of some personal prowess. It is ability that charms him. To be a man, as he understands manliness, is to have the whole planet for a gymnasium and play-ground. He would like to have been on the other side of Hydaspes when Alexander came to that stream. But he soon discovers that wit is the sword of sharpness,-that he is the ruler who can reach the deepest desire of man and satisfy that. If there is power in him, he becomes a careful student, examines everything, examines his own enthusiasm, examines his last examination, tries every estimate again and again. He distrusts his tools, and then distrusts his own distrust, lifting himself by the very boot-straps in his metaphysics, to get at some foundation which will not move. He will know what he is about and what is great. He puts Cæsar, Milton, and Whitfield into his crucible; but that which went in Cæsar comes out a part of himself. The bold yet modest young chemist is egotistical. He cannot be anybody else but John Smith. Why should he? Who knows yet what it is to be John Smith? Napoleon and Washington are only playing his own game for him, since he so easily understands and accepts their play. A boy reads history as girls cut flowers from old embroidery to sew them on a new foundation. They are interested in the new, and in the old only for what they can make of it. So he sucks the blood of kings and captains to help him fight his own battles. He reads of Bunker's Hill and the Declaration of Independence with constant reference to the part he shall take in the politics of the world. His motto is, Sic semper tyrannis! Benjamin Franklin, and after him John Smith,-perhaps a better man than he. We live on that perhaps. Every great man departed has played out his last card, has taken all his chances. We are glad to see his power limited and sealed up. Shakspeare, we say, did not know everything; and here am I alone with the universe, nothing but a little sleepiness between me and all that Shakspeare and Plato knew or did not know. If I should be jostled out of my drowsiness, who can tell what may be given me to see, to say, or to do? Let us make ready and get upon some high ground from which we may overlook the work of the world; for the secret of all mastery is dormant, yet breathing and stirring in you and me.


Out of such material as we can gather we make a world in which we walk continually up and down. In it we find friends and enemies, we love and are loved, we travel and build. In it we are kings; we ordain and arrange everything, and never come away worsted from any encounter. For this sphere arises in answer to the practical question, What can I be and do? It is an embodiment of the force that is in me. Every dreamer, therefore, goes on to see himself among men and things which he can understand and master, with which he can deal securely. The stable-boy has hid an old volume among the straw, and he walks with Portia and Desdemona while he grooms the horses. Already in his smockfrock he is a companion for princes and queens. But the rich man’s son, well born, as we say, in the great house yonder, has one only ambition in life,-to turn stable-boy, to own a fast team and a trotting-wagon, to vie with gamesters upon the road. That is an activity to which he is equal, in which his value will appear. Both boys, and all boys, are looking upward, only from widely different levels and to different heights.

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The young blasphemer does not love blasphemy, but to have his head and be let alone by Old Aunty, who combs his hair as if he were a girl. So always there is some ideal aim in the mixed motive. Out of six gay young men who drive and drink together, only one cares for the meat and the bottle. With the rest this feasting gallantly on the best, regardless of expense, is part of a system. It is in good style, is convivial. For these green-horns of society to live together, to be convivœ, is not to think and labor together, as wise men use, but to laugh and be drunken in company.


Into the lowest courses there enters something to keep the filth from overwhelming self-respect. The advocates of slavery have not, as it appears, lost all pretence of honor and honesty. Thieves are sustained by a sense of the injustice of society. They do but right an old wrong, taking bravely what was accumulated by cautious cunning. They cultivate many virtues, and, like the best of us, make much of these, identify themselves with these. If a man is harsh and tyrannical, he regrets that he has too much force of character. And it is not safe to accuse a harlot of stealing and lying. She has her ideal also, and strives to keep the ulcer of sin within bounds,-to save a sweet side from corruption.

Is this stooping very low to look for the Ideal Tendency? The greater gain, if we find it prevailing in these depths. We may doubt whether thieves and harlots are subject to the same law which irresistibly lifts us, for we know that our own sin is not quite like other sin. But I must not offer all the cheerful hope I feel for the worst offenders, because too much faith passes for levity or impiety; and men thank God only for deliverance from great dangers, not for preservation from all danger. For gratitude we must not escape too easily and clean, but with some smell of fire upon us.

Yet in our own experience this planning what we shall do and become is constant, and always we escape from the present into larger air. The boy will not be content with that skill in skating which occupies his mind to-day. That belongs to the day and place, but next year he goes to the academy and fresh exploits engage him. He works gallantly in this new field and harness, because his thought has gone forward again, and he sees through these studies the man of thought. Already as a student he is a philosopher, a poet, a servant of the Muse. Bacon and Milton look kindly on him in invitation, he is walking to their company and in their company. The young hero-worshipper cannot remain satisfied with mere physical or warlike prowess. He soon sees the superiority of mental and moral mastery, of creation of good counsel. He will reverence the valiant reformer who brings justice in his train, the saint in whom goodness is enamored of goodness, the gentleman whose heart-beat is courtesy, the prophet in whom a religion is born, all who have been inspired with liberal, not dragged by sordid aims.

How beautiful to him is the society of poets! He reads with idolatry the letters and anecdotes of Coleridge and Wordsworth, Goethe and Schiller, Beethoven and Raphael. Look at the private thought of these men in familiar intercourse: no plotting for lucre, but a conspiracy to reach the best in life. The saints are even more ardent in aspiration, for their tender hearts were pressed and saddened by fear. They are now set on fire by a sense of great redemption. They are prisoners pardoned.

For scholars the world is peopled only with saints, philosophers, and poets, and the studious boy seeks his own amid their large activity. So much of it meets his want, yet the whole does not meet all his want. He must combine and balance and embrace conflicting qualities. Every day his view enlarges. What was noble last year will now by no means content his conscience. Duty and beauty have risen.

The Ideal Tendency characterizes man, affords the only definition of him; and it is a perpetual, irresistible expansion. No matter on what it fastens, it will not stay, but spreads and soars like light in the morning sky.

To-day we are charmed with our partners, and think we can never tire of Alfred and Emily. To-morrow we discover without shame, after all our protestations and engagements, that their future seems incommensurate with our own. To our surprise, they also feel their paths diverging from ours. We part with a show of regret, but real joy to be free.

Both parties have gained from their intercourse a certainty of power and promise of greater power. Silly people fill the world with lamentation over human inconstancy; but if we follow love, we cannot cling to the beloved. We must love onward, and only when our friends go before us can we be true both to friendship and to them.

How eager and tremulous his excitement when at last the youth encounters all beauty in a maiden! Now he is on his trial. Can he move her? for he must be to her nothing or all. How stately and far-removed she seems in her crystal sphere! All her relations are fair and poetic. Her book is not like another book. Her soft and fragrant attire, can it be woven of ribbons and silk? She, too, has dreamed of the coming man, heroic, lyrical, impassioned; the beat of his blood a pæan and triumphal march; a man able to cut paths for her and lead her to all that is worthiest in life. Her day is an expectation; her demand looks out of proud eyes. Can he move this stately creature, pure and high above him as the clear moon yonder, never turning from her course,-this Diana, who will love upward and stoop to no Endymion? Now it will appear whether he can pass with another for all he is to himself. This will be the victory for which he was born, or blackest defeat. If she could love him! If he should, after all, be to her only such another as her cousin Thomas, who comes and goes with all his pretensions as unregarded as Rover the house-dog! Between these ifs he vacillates, swung like a ship on stormy waters, touching heaven and hell.

Meanwhile the maiden dares hardly look toward this generous new-comer, whose destiny lies broad open in his courage and desire. Others she could conciliate and gently allure, but she will not play with the lion. She will throw no web around his strength to tear her heart away, if it does not hold him. For the first time she guards her fancy. She will not think of the career that awaits him, of the help there is in him for men, and the honor that will follow him from them,-of the high studies, tasks, and companionship to which he is hastening. What avails this avoidance, this turningaway of the head? A fancy that must be kept is already lost. She read his quality in the first glance of deep-meaning eyes. When at last he speaks, she sees suddenly how beyond all recovery he had carried away her soul in that glance. They marry each the expectation of the other. It was a promise in either that shone so fair. Happy lovers, if only as wife and husband they can go on to fulfil the promise! For love cannot be repeated; every day it must have fresh food in a new object; and unless character is renewed, love must leave it behind and wander on.

If the wife is still aspiring,-if she lays growing demands on her hero,-if her thought enlarges and she stands true to it, separate from him in integrity as he saw her first, following not his, but her own native estimate,-she will always be his mistress. She will still have that charm of remoteness which belongs only to those who do not lean and borrow, to natures centred for themselves in the deep. There is something incalculable in such independence. It is full of surprise for the most intimate. In one breast the true wife prepares for her husband a course of loves. Every day she offers a new heart to be won. Every day the woman he could reach is gone, and there again before him is the inaccessible maiden who will not accept today the behavior of yesterday. This withdrawal and advancement from height to height is true virginity, which never lies down with love but keeps him always on foot and girded for fresh pursuit. Noble lovers rely on no pledges, point to no past engagements, but prefer to renew their relation from hour to hour. The heroic woman will command, and not solicit love. Let him go, when I cease to be all to him, when I can no longer fill the horizon of his imagination and satisfy his heart. But if there is less ascension in a woman, she is no mate for an advancing man. He must leave her; he walks by her side alone. So we pass many dear companions, outgrowing alike our loves and our fears.

Once or twice in youth we meet a man of sounding reputation or real wisdom, whose secret is hid above our discovery. His manners are formidable while we do not understand them. In his presence our tongues are tied, our limbs are paralyzed. Thought dies out before him, the will is unseated and vacillates, we are cowed like Antony beside Cæsar. In solitude we are ashamed of this cowardice and resolve to put it away; but when the great man returns, our knees knock and we are as weak as before. It is suicide to fly from such mortification. A brave boy faces it as well as he can. By-andby the dazzle abates, he sees some flaw, some coarseness or softness, in this shining piece of metal; he begins to fathom the motives and measure the orbit of this tyrannous benefactor. They are the true friends who daunt and overpower us, to whom for a little we yield more than their due.

This rule is universal, that no man can admire downward. All enthusiasm rises and lifts the subject of it. That which seems to you so base an activity is lifted above low natures. What matter, then, where the standard floats at this moment, since it cannot remain fixed?

Perfection retreats, as the horizon withdraws before a traveller, and lures us on and on. It even travels faster than our best endeavors can follow, and so beckons to us from farther and farther away. We may give ourselves to the ideal, or we may turn aside to appetite and sleep; but in every moment of returning sanity we are again on our feet and again upon an endless ascending road.

When a man has tasted power, when he sees the supply there is so near in Nature for all need, he hungers for reinforcement. That desire is prayer. It opens its own doors and takes supplies from God’s hand. No wise man can grudge the necessary use of the mind to serve the body with shelter and food, for we go merrily to Nature, and with our milk we drink order, justice, beauty, and benignity. We cannot take the husks on which our bodies are fed, without expressing these juices also, which circulate as sap and blood through the sphere. We cannot touch any object but some spark of vital electricity is shot through us. Every creature is a battery, charged not with mere vegetable or animal, but with moral life. Our metaphysical being is fed from something hidden in rocks and woods, in streams and skies, in fire, water, earth, and air. While we dig roots, and gather nuts, and hunt and roast our meat, our blood is quickened not in the heart alone. Deeper currents are swelled. The springs of our humanity are opened in Nature; for that which streams through the landscape, and comes in at the eye and ear, is plainly the same fluid which enters as consciousness, and is the life by which we live. While we enjoy this spiritual refreshment and keep ourselves open to it, we may dig without degradation; but if our minds fasten on the thing to be done, on commodity and safety, on getting and having, those avenues seem to close by which the soul was fed. Then we forget our incalculable chances and certainties; we go mad, and make the mind a muck-rake. If a man will direct his faculties to any limited and not to illimitable ends, he cripples his faculties. No matter whether he is deluded by a fortune or a reputation or position, if he does not give himself wholly to grow and be a man, regardless of minor advantages, he has lost his way in the world. “Be true,” said Schiller, “to the dream of thy youth.” That dream was generous, not sordid. We must be surrendered to the perfection which claims us, and suffer no narrow aim to postpone that insatiable demand.

But the potency of life will bring back every wanderer, as he well knows. Every sinner keeps his trunk packed, ready to return to the good. The poor traders really mean to buy love with their gold. Feeling the hold of a chain which binds us even when we do not cling to it, we grow prodigal of time and power. The essence of life, as we enjoy it, is a sense of the inextinguishable ascending tendency in life; and this gives courage when there is yet no reverence or devotion.

In development of character is involved great change of circumstances. We cannot grow or work in a corner. It is not for greed alone or mainly that men make war and build cities and found governments, but to try what they can do and become, to justify themselves to themselves and to their fellows. We desire to please and help,-but still more, at first, to be sure that we can please and help. If he hears any man speak effectually in public, the ambitious boy will never rest till he can also speak, or do some other deed as difficult and as well worth doing. For the trial of faculty we must go out into the world of institutions, range ourselves beside the workers, take up their tools and strike stroke for stroke with them. Every new situation and employment dazzles till we find out the trick of it. The boy longs to escape from a farm to college, from college to the city and practical life. Then he looks up from his desk, or from the pit in the theatre, to the gay world of fashion,-harder to conquer than even the world of thought. At last he makes his way upward into the sacred circle, and finds there a little original power and a great deal of routine. These fine parts are like those of players, learned by heart. The men who invented them, with whom they were spontaneous, seem to have died out and left their manners with their wardrobes to narrow-breasted children, whom neither clothes nor courtesies will fit. So in every department we find the snail freezing in an oystershell. The judges do not know the meaning of justice. The preacher thinks religion is a spasm of desire and fear. A young man soon loses all respect for titles, wigs, and gowns, and looks for a muscular master-mind. Somebody wrote the laws, and set the example of noble behavior, and founded every religion. Only a man capable of originating can understand, sustain, or use any institution. The Church, the State, the Social System come tumbling ruinous over the heads of bunglers, who cannot uphold, because they never could have built them, and the rubbish obstructs every path in life. An honest, vigorous thinker will clear away these ruins and begin anew at the earth. When the boy has broken loose from home, and fairly entered the world that allured him, he finds it not fit to live in without revolutions. He is as much cramped in it as he was in the ways of the old homestead. Feeding the pigs and picking up chips did not seem work for a man, but he finds that almost all the activity of the race amounts to nothing more; no more thought or purpose goes into it. Men find Church and State and Custom ready-made, and they fall into the procession, ask no searching questions, but take things for granted without reason; and their imitation is as easy as picking up chips. It is no doing, but merely sliding down hill. The way of the world will not suit a valiant boy. To make elbow-room and get breathing-space, he becomes a reformer; and when now he can find no new worlds to conquer, he will make a world, laying in truth and justice every stone. The same seeker, who was so fired by the sight of his eyes, looking out from a millyard or a shoe-shop on the many-colored activity of his kind, who ran such a round of arts and sciences, pursuing the very secret of his being in each new enterprise, is now discontented with all that has been done. He begins again to look forward,-he becomes a prophet, instead of the historian he was. He easily sees that a true manhood would disuse our ways of teaching and worshipping, would unbuild and rebuild every town and house, would tear away the jails and abolish pauperism as well as slavery. He sees the power of government lying, unused and unsuspected in spelling-books and Bibles. Now he has found a work, not for one finger, but for fighting Hercules and singing Apollo, worthy of Minerva and of Jove. He will try what man can do for man.

The history of every brave girl is parallel with that of her play-fellow and yoke-fellow. She sighs for sympathy, for a gallant company of youths and maidens worthy of all desire. Her music, drawing, and Italian are only doors which she hopes to open upon such a company. She longs for society to make the hours lyrical, for tasks to make them epic and heroic. The attitudes and actions of imaginative young persons are exalted every moment by the invisible presence of lovers, poets, inspired and inspiring companions. Such as they are we also shall be; when we walk among them and with them, we shall wash our hands of all injustice, meanness, and pretension. Women are as tired as men of our silly civilization, its compliments, restraints, and compromises. They feel the burden of routine as heavily, and keep their elasticity under it as long as we. What they cannot hope to do, a great-hearted man, some lover of theirs, shall do for them; and they will sustain him with appreciation, anticipating the tardy justice of mankind. Every generous girl shares with her sex that new development of feminine consciousness, which the vulgar have named, in derision, a movement for woman’s rights. She will seek to be more truly woman, to assert her special power and privilege, to approach from her own side the common ideal, offering a pure soprano to match the manly bass.

We all look for a future, not only better than our own past, but better than any past. Humanity is our inheritance, but not historical humanity. Man seems to be broken and scattered all abroad. The great lives are only eminent examples of a single virtue, and by admiration of every hero we have been crippled on some one side. If he is free, he is also coarse; if delicate, he is overlaid by the gross world; saints are timid and feverish, afraid of being spattered in the first puddle; heroes are profane. We must melt up all the old metal to make a new man and carry forward the common consciousness. Every failure was part of the final success. We go over a causeway in which every timber is some soldier fallen in this enterprise. Who doubts the result doubts God. We say, regretfully, “If I could only continue at my best!” and we ache with the little ebb, between wave and wave, of an advancing tide. But this tide is Omnipotence. It rises surely, if it were only an inch in a thousand years. The changes in society are like the geologic upheaval and sinking of continents; yet man is morally as far removed from the savage as he is physically superior to the saurian. We do not see the corn grow or the world revolve; yet if motion be given as the primal essence, we must look for inconceivable results. Wisdom will take care of wisdom, and extend. Consider the growth of intellect in the history of your own parish for twenty years. See how old views have died out of New England, and new ones come in. Every man is fortified in his opinions, yet no man can hold his opinions. The closer they are hugged, the faster in any community they change. The ideas of such men as Swedenborg, Goethe, Emerson, float in the air like spores, and wherever they light they thrive. The crabbedest dogmatist cannot escape; for, if he open his eyes to seek his meat, some sunshine will creep in. We have combustibles stored in the stupidest of us, and a spark of truth kindles our slumbering suspicion. Since the great reality is organized in man, and waits to be revealed in him, it is of no avail to shut out the same reality from our ears. Thinkers are held to be dangerous, and excluded from the desks of public instruction; but the boys were already occupied with the same thoughts. They would hear nothing new at the lecture, and they are more encouraged by the terror of the elders than by any word the wise man could speak. In pursuit of truth, the difficulty is to ask a question; for in ability to ask is involved ability to reach an answer. The serious student is occupied with problems which the doctors have never been able to entertain, and he knows that their discourse is not addressed to him. If you have not wit to understand what I seek, you may croak with the frogs: you are left out of my game.

And the old people, unhappily, suspect that this boy, whose theory they do not comprehend, is master of their theory. They are puzzled and panic-stricken; they strike in the dark. In all controversy, the strong man's position is unassailed. His adversary does not see where he is, but attacks a man of straw, some figment of his own, to the amusement of intelligent spectators. Always our combatant is talking quite wide of the whole question. So the wise man can never have an opponent; for whoever is able to face and find him has already gone over to his side. By material defences, we shut out light for a little, by going where only our own views are repeated, and so boxing ourselves from all danger of conviction; but if a strong thinker could gain the mere brute advantage of having an audience confined in their seats to hear him out, he would carry them all inevitably to his conclusion. They know it and run away. But the press has made our whole world of civilization one great lectureroom, from which no reading man can escape, and the only defence against progress is stolid preoccupation with trade or trifles. Yet this persistency is holding the breath, and can no more be continued in the mind than that in the body. Blundering and falsehood become intolerable to the blunderers; they must return to thought, and that is proper in a single direction, is approached by ten thousand avenues toward the One. It is religious, not ignorance or dogma. We cannot think without exploration of the divine order and recognition of its divinity, without finding ourselves carried away by it to service and adoration. All good is assured to us in Truth, and Truth follows us hard, drives us into many a corner, and will have us at last. So Love surprises all, and every virtue has a pass-key to every heart. Out of conflicting experience, amid barbarism and dogmatism, from feathers that float and stones that fall, we deduce the great law of moral gravitation, which binds spirit to spirit, and all souls to the best. Recognition of that law is worship. We rejoice in it without a taint of selfishness. We adore it with entire satisfaction. Worship is neither belief nor hope, but this certainty of repose upon Perfection. We explore over our heads and under our feet a harmony that is only enriched by dissolving discords. The drag of time, the cramp of organization, are only false fifths. It is blasphemy to deny the dominant. We cannot escape our good; we shall be purified. When our destiny is thus assured to us, we become impatient of sleep and sin, and redouble exertion. We devote ourselves to this certainty, and our allegiance is religion. There is nothing in man omitted from the uplift of Ideality. That is a central and total expansion of him, is an inmost entering into his inmost, is more himself than he is himself. All reverence is directed toward this Creator revealed in flesh, though not compassed. We adore him in others, while yet we despise him in ourselves. Every other motion of man has an external centre, is some hunger or passion, acts on us from its seat in Nature or the body, and we can face it, deny and repudiate it with the body; but this is the man flowing down from his source.

We must not be tempted to call things by too fine names, lest we should disguise them. All that is great is plain and familiar. The Ideal Tendency is simple love of life, felt first as desire and then as satisfaction. The men who represent it are not seekers, but finders, who go on to find more and more; for in the poet desire has fulfilled itself. Enjoyment makes the artist. He has gone on before us, reaching into the abyss of possibility; but he has reached more mightily. He begins to know what is promised in the universal attraction, in this eager turning of all faces toward our future. There is a centre from which no eye can be diverted, for it is the beam of sight. Look which way you will, that centre is everywhere. The universe is flooded with a ray from it, and the light of common day on every object is a refraction or reflection of that brightness.

Shallow men think of Ideality as another appetite, to be fed with pretty baubles, as the body is satisfied with meat and sleep; but the representative of that august impulse feels in it his immortality, and by all his lovely allegories, mythologies, fables, pictures, statues, manners, songs, and symphonies, he seeks to communicate his own feeling, that by specific gravity man must rise. It is no wonder, then, that we love Art while it offers us reinforcement of being, and despise the pretenders, for whom it is pastime, not prophecy.

For, in spite of all discouragement from the materialists, men stultified by trade or tradition, we have trusted the high desire and followed it thus far. We felt the sacredness of life even in ourselves, and there was always reverence in our admiration. We could not be made to doubt the divinity of that which walked with us in the wood or looked on us in the morning. The grasses and pebbles, the waters and rocks, clouds and showers, snow and wind, were too brother-like to be denied. They sang the same song which fills the breast, and our love for them was pure. The men and women we sought, were they not worthy of honor? The artist comes to bid us trust the Ideal Tendency, and not dishonor him who moves therein. He is no trifler, then, to be thrust aside by the doctors with their sciences, or the economists with production and use. He offers manhood to man and womanhood to woman.


We have named Ideality a love of life. Nay, what is it but life itself,-and that loving but true living? What word can have any value for us, unless it is a record of inevitable expansions in character. The universe is pledged to every heart, and the artist represents its promise. He sings, because he sees the manchild advancing, by blind paths it may be, but under sure guidance, propelled by inextinguishable desires toward the largest experience. He is no longer afraid of old bugbears. He feels for one, that nothing in the universe, call it by what ugly name you will, can crush or limit the lift of that leaven which works in the breast. Out of all eyes there looks on him the same expectation, and what for others is a great perhaps for him has become unavoidable certainty.



理想的趋向
1858年12月号
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The Atlantic Monthly.

一本关于文学、艺术和政治的杂志。

VOL. II.-1858年12月。XIV.

我们都对艺术感兴趣；但我们中很少有人努力去证明我们在艺术中感受到的快乐。任何哲学都无法使我们从莎士比亚、柏拉图、安吉洛、贝多芬、歌德、菲迪亚斯--从雕塑、绘画、音乐和隐喻的大师们那里得到启发。他们的真理比其他任何真理都要大--大到可以直接陈述，并安置在系统、理论、定义或公式中。它们向我们暗示并保证了无法言说的东西。它们传达的是生命，因为它们并不努力去衡量生命。哲学会呈现出明确的东西；而艺术总是指的是广阔的东西，即不能被理解的东西，而只是享受和崇拜的东西。艺术是最大的表达。它不像科学，是一个可以装肉和饮料的篮子，而是一只指向天空的手。我们的眼睛追随它的方向，我们的灵魂也追随我们的眼睛。人只需要被展示一个开放的空间。他就会立刻膨胀起来，进入其中。我们被赋予了那无边的能量。只有诗歌才能说明诗歌，只有艺术才能证明艺术的正确性；我们不能希望最终谈论这个有弹性的真理，不能希望在那个重要的东西周围画一个圈，因为它有无限的东西，--但我们可以希望消除一个疑虑，这个疑虑正是从使我们兴奋和振作的巨大中产生的。艺术是不实用的。它不提供任何戒律，而是像自然一样躺在国外，不被人掌握和用尽。它也不急于自己的接受，仿佛任何人都可以长期逃避它所带来的好处。科学的每一个原则，哲学的每一个推论，都是一种工具。我们的宗教，就像我们敢于命名的那样，是一把打开天堂的钥匙，以接纳我和家人。艺术只提供了生活；但也许那会显得值得接受，而不需要看得更远。我们能看得更远吗？生命本身就是一个目的，所以比任何工具都要好。


作为所有艺术本质的基础，需要表达和赞美的东西是什么？诗歌是什么，是艺术家据以命名的创作？我们将大胆地回答：它不是对形式的塑造，而是对人的创造。大自然是一个整体，已经完成，上帝对她的交代已经结束；但人还只是鸡蛋里的小鸡。对他来说，这仍然是创造的第一天，他还没有得到完成工作的祝福。然而，在我们的日常经历中却涉及并应允了完成。人是一个永远的探索者。他总是看到他自己的能力就在眼前，他必须赶紧超越它。他经常在思考中衡量自己；但他所考虑的不是他的现在，而是一个假定的价值。我们不断地进入我们的未来，它离我们如此之近，我们每时每刻都充满了它，以至于我们毫无欺诈地利用明天的信用。买了第一本法律书的学生已经是一个伟大的顾问了。通过注释，他把思考和司法习惯带回家。他通过自己和羊皮封面上的毛孔吸收了一些智慧。现在他是个严肃而谨慎的人，是个有世界观和权威的人；但如果他的选择不同，把第一本《神学》带回家，他的日子就会被染上其他颜色。因为每一个选择本身都包含着一个未来，当我们朝着这个方向走的时候，我们就开始尝到了这个滋味。向前倾斜和提前生活的习惯在每个人身上都留下了痕迹。我们不是看陌生人的历史或表现，而是看他的自命不凡。这些都写在他的穿着，他的气质和态度，他的语气和职业中。过去已是虚无，现在正在滑落；要了解任何一个人，我们必须提前留意他所走的路。因为人是一个非自愿的，甚至是自愿的旅行者。时间不会从他的脚下滚过，但他却被水流带走了，而且再也不可能成为他原来的样子。他的经历中没有什么可以完全重复。如果你看到同样的树木和山丘，它们每年都不一样。昨天它们是新的和陌生的；你和它们一起是年轻的。今天，它们是熟悉的，被忽视的。很快它们就会成为老朋友，对着灰色的头发絮絮叨叨地说着年轻时的棕色锁和束缚的气息。

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我们成长的先驱是想象力。欲望和希望先于我们进入未知的荒野；它们开辟道路；它们开辟空地；它们在我们自己的意志和力量到达这个开辟地之前，坚定地建造和定居，但它们从不等待我们到来。他们是 "先行者"，再次深入到存在的巨大可能性中。男孩走在明天的梦中。他包里的两蒲式耳坚果对他来说不是坚果，而是银先令；但先令也不是先令，而是闪亮的溜冰鞋，它们很快就会被转化为溜冰鞋。他已经在大池塘边的熊熊大火中，或拿着闪闪发光的牌子向遥远的黑暗星空敲去。在他的第一双冰鞋被买到之前，在他看到买冰鞋的硬币之前，他就已经和他的伙伴们一起潇洒地旋转了，成为飞行列车的领导者。


这种早期的预见性是我们整个活动的写照。"歌德说："要注意不要让树长到天上去"；但人就是那棵树，它必须超越天空，把它的顶端抬到更美好的空气和阳光中。基本的种子是成长；不是外壳和树皮，也不是内核，而是一种刺入土壤和抬起石头的胚芽。精神就是这样的胚芽，永久的强化是它的品质；因此，我们知道伟大的存在是一个正在变成的创造者，在永久的发散中把自己加到自己身上，把生命加到生命上。

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这个男孩的想法从来没有停止过一些个人的能力。吸引他的是能力。按照他的理解，要成为一个男人，就是要把整个地球作为一个体育场和游乐场。当亚历山大来到海达斯河时，他希望自己能在海达斯河的另一边。但他很快就发现，机智是锋利的剑，--他是能触及人类最深层的欲望并满足它的统治者。如果他身上有力量，他就会成为一个仔细的学生，审视一切，审视自己的热情，审视自己的最后一次审视，反复尝试每一次的估计。他不信任他的工具，然后不信任他自己的不信任，在他的形而上学中用靴带抬起自己，以获得一些不会移动的基础。他将知道他的目的是什么，什么是伟大的。他把凯撒、弥尔顿和惠特菲尔德放进他的坩埚里；但是凯撒里的东西出来时却是他自己的一部分。大胆而谦虚的年轻化学家是自负的。除了约翰-史密斯，他不可能成为其他任何人。他为什么要这样做？谁还知道什么是约翰-史密斯？拿破仑和华盛顿只是在为他玩自己的游戏，因为他如此容易理解和接受他们的游戏。一个男孩读历史，就像女孩从旧的刺绣上剪下花朵，缝在新的基础上一样。他们对新的东西感兴趣，而对旧的东西感兴趣只是因为他们能把它变成什么。所以他吸食国王和船长的血，以帮助他打自己的仗。他在阅读邦克山和《独立宣言》时，不断提到他在世界政治中应扮演的角色。他的座右铭是：Sic semper tyrannis! 本杰明-富兰克林，以及在他之后的约翰-史密斯，--也许是一个比他更好的人。我们的生活也许就是这样。每个离去的伟人都打完了他的最后一张牌，抓住了他所有的机会。我们很高兴看到他的权力受到限制并被封存起来。我们说，莎士比亚并不是什么都知道；而我在这里独自面对宇宙，在我与莎士比亚和柏拉图所知道或不知道的一切之间，只有一点睡意。如果我从昏昏欲睡中醒来，谁能告诉我可以看到什么、说什么、做什么？让我们做好准备，站在一些高处，从那里我们可以俯瞰世界的工作；因为所有主宰的秘密都是沉睡的，但在你和我身上呼吸和搅拌。


从我们能收集到的材料中，我们创造了一个世界，我们在其中不断地上下行走。在其中，我们找到了朋友和敌人，我们爱和被爱，我们旅行和建设。在这个世界里，我们是国王；我们规定和安排一切，并且在任何遭遇中都不会落败。因为这个领域的出现是为了回答一个实际的问题：我可以成为什么，做什么？它是我体内力量的体现。因此，每个做梦的人都会继续看到自己置身于他能理解和掌握的人和事之中，他能安全地与之打交道。马夫在稻草堆里藏了一本旧书，他和鲍西娅、苔丝狄蒙娜一起散步，同时为马匹梳理。他已经是王公贵族们的伴侣了。但是，这个富人的儿子，正如我们所说的那样，在那边的大房子里出生，他一生只有一个野心，那就是当马夫，拥有一支快马队和一辆小马车，在路上与赌徒争夺。这是一项他可以胜任的活动，他的价值将在其中显现。这两个男孩，以及所有的男孩，都在往上看，只是从不同的层面和不同的高度。

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年轻的亵渎者并不喜欢亵渎，而是喜欢他的头，让老姑姑单独为他梳理头发，好像他是个女孩一样。因此，混合动机中总是有一些理想的目标。在六个一起开车喝酒的年轻同性恋者中，只有一个人关心肉和酒的问题。对其余的人来说，这种不计成本地大吃大喝，是一种制度的一部分。这是一种良好的风格，是一种欢愉。对于这些社会上的年轻人来说，共同生活，共同生活，不是像聪明人那样一起思考和工作，而是在一起欢笑和醉酒。


在最低级的课程中，有一些东西可以使污秽的东西不至于压倒自尊。奴隶制的倡导者们似乎并没有失去所有的荣誉和诚实的伪装。盗贼是靠对社会的不公正感来支撑的。他们所做的只是纠正一个古老的错误，勇敢地夺取由谨慎的狡猾所积累的东西。他们培养了许多美德，并且像我们中最好的人一样，对这些美德大加赞赏，把自己与这些美德联系起来。如果一个人苛刻而暴虐，他就会后悔自己的性格太强。而指责一个妓女偷窃和撒谎是不安全的。她也有她的理想，并努力将罪恶的溃疡控制在一定范围内，使甜蜜的一面不致堕落。

这是在低头寻找理想的倾向吗？如果我们发现它在这些深处盛行，那么收获就越大。我们可能会怀疑小偷和妓女是否受制于同样的法律，这种法律不可抗拒地提升了我们，因为我们知道，我们自己的罪和其他的罪不太一样。但我不能为最严重的罪犯提供我所感受到的所有愉快的希望，因为太多的信心会变成轻率或不虔诚；人们只为从巨大的危险中得到解救而感谢上帝，而不是为从所有的危险中得到保护。为了感谢，我们不能太容易和干净地逃脱，而是要带着一些火的味道。

然而，在我们自己的经验中，这种计划我们将做什么和成为什么是不变的，而且我们总是从现在逃到更大的空气中。这个男孩不会满足于今天占据他头脑的滑冰技能。那是属于那个时代和地方的，但明年他去了学院，新的探索让他参与其中。他在这个新的领域和马具上勇敢地工作，因为他的思想又开始前进了，他通过这些研究看到了思想的人。作为一个学生，他已经是一个哲学家，一个诗人，一个缪斯的仆人。培根和弥尔顿在邀请他时对他很友好，他正走向他们的公司，在他们的公司里。年轻的英雄崇拜者不能仅仅满足于身体或战争的能力。他很快就看到了精神和道德上的驾驭能力的优越性，看到了好的建议的创造。他将会敬重那些将正义带入的英勇的改革者，敬重那些善良的圣人，敬重那些以礼相待的绅士，敬重那些诞生了宗教的先知，敬重那些被自由而非肮脏的目标所激励的人。

对他来说，诗人的社会是多么的美好！他以偶像般的眼光阅读着诗人的作品。他以偶像的身份阅读柯勒律治和华兹华斯、歌德和席勒、贝多芬和拉斐尔的信件和轶事。看看这些人在熟悉的交往中的私人思想：没有谋求利益的阴谋，而是为达到人生的最佳境界而密谋。圣徒们的愿望更加热烈，因为他们温柔的心被恐惧所压迫和忧伤。现在，他们被一种伟大的救赎感点燃了。他们是被赦免的囚犯。

对学者来说，世界上只有圣人、哲学家和诗人，而好学的男孩在他们的大量活动中寻找自己的位置。这些活动有很多符合他的要求，但整体上并不能满足他的所有要求。他必须结合、平衡和包容相互冲突的品质。他的视野每天都在扩大。去年还很高尚的东西，现在已经不能满足他的良知。义务和美已经上升了。

理想倾向是人的特征，是对人的唯一定义；它是一种永恒的、不可抗拒的扩张。无论它紧紧抓住什么，它都不会停留，而是像早晨的天空中的光一样传播和飞翔。

今天，我们被我们的伙伴们迷住了，并认为我们永远不会厌倦阿尔弗雷德和艾米莉。明天，我们不无羞愧地发现，在我们所有的抗议和约定之后，他们的未来似乎与我们的未来不相称。令我们惊讶的是，他们也感到自己的道路与我们的不同。我们带着遗憾离开，但真正的喜悦是自由。

双方都从他们的交往中获得了对权力的肯定和对更大权力的承诺。愚蠢的人让世界充满了对人类不稳定的哀叹；但如果我们追随爱，我们就不能紧紧抓住被爱者。我们必须往前爱，只有当我们的朋友走在我们前面时，我们才能对友谊和他们都是真实的。

当青年终于在一个少女身上遇到了所有的美，他的兴奋是多么的急切和颤抖啊！现在他正在接受考验。现在他正在接受考验。他能打动她吗？因为他对她来说必须是一无所有或全部。她在她的水晶世界里显得多么庄重和遥远！她的所有关系都是公平和诗意的。她所有的关系都是公平和诗意的。她的书不像别的书。她柔软而芬芳的服饰，难道是用丝带和丝绸织成的？她也梦想着即将到来的男人，英勇的、抒情的、激昂的；他的血液的跳动是一个凯旋的进行曲；一个能够为她开辟道路的男人，带领她走向生活中所有最值得的东西。她的日子是一种期待；她的要求从骄傲的眼睛里看出来。他能打动这个纯洁的、高高在上的、像那边清澈的月亮一样的庄严的生物吗--这个戴安娜，她会向上爱，不会向恩底弥翁屈服？现在将显示出他是否能与另一个人一起通过他自己的一切。这将是他生来就有的胜利，或是最黑暗的失败。如果她能爱他! 如果他对她来说毕竟只是她的表弟托马斯那样的另一个人，而他的所有自命不凡的东西就像家犬罗弗一样来来去去，无人问津！在这些如果之间，他摇摆不定。在这些 "如果 "之间，他摇摆不定，像一艘在暴风雨中航行的船，触及天堂和地狱。

与此同时，少女几乎不敢看这个慷慨的新来者，他的命运在他的勇气和欲望中敞开。其他的人她可以调和，温柔地引诱，但她不会和狮子玩。她不会在他的力量周围撒下网来撕开她的心，如果它不能容纳他的话。这是她第一次保护她的幻想。她不会想到等待他的事业，不会想到他对人的帮助，不会想到他将从人那里得到的荣誉，不会想到他正在赶去的高级研究、任务和伴侣。这种回避，这种扭头就走的做法有什么用呢？一个必须保留的幻想已经失去了。她从那双深邃的眼睛的第一眼就读出了他的品质。当他最后开口说话时，她突然看到他是如何在那一瞥中把她的灵魂带走的，这一点是无法挽回的。他们结婚是对对方的期望。这是一个承诺，在其中闪耀着如此美丽的光芒。幸福的恋人，只要作为妻子和丈夫，他们能继续履行承诺！因为爱情不能重复；每天都是如此。因为爱情不能重复；每天它必须在新的对象中获得新的食物；除非性格得到更新，否则爱情必须把它抛在后面，继续流浪。

如果妻子仍然有抱负，如果她对她的英雄提出越来越多的要求，如果她的思想扩大了，而且她忠实于它，在正直中与他分开，就像他最初看到她一样，不是遵循他的，而是她自己的本能估计，她将永远是他的女主人。她仍然会有那种遥远的魅力，这种魅力只属于那些不靠不借的人，属于那些把自己的天性集中在深处的人。这种独立性有其不可估量之处。它对最亲密的人来说充满了惊喜。真正的妻子用她的胸怀为她的丈夫准备了一个爱的过程。每天她都提供一个新的心脏来赢得。每天，他能接触到的女人都消失了，在他面前的又是一个无法接近的少女，她今天不会接受昨天的行为。这种从高处的撤退和前进是真正的贞操，它永远不会与爱情一起躺下，而是让他永远站在原地，为新的追求而束手就擒。高贵的恋人不依靠任何承诺，不指向过去的约定，而是宁愿每时每刻都在更新他们的关系。英勇的女人会命令，而不是要求爱。当我不再是他的全部，当我不再能填满他的想象力和满足他的心时，就让他走吧。但是，如果一个女人的地位不那么高，她就不是一个进步的男人的伴侣。他必须离开她；他独自在她身边行走。就这样，我们与许多亲爱的伙伴擦肩而过，既超越了我们的爱，也超越了我们的恐惧。

在青年时期，我们曾经遇到过一两次有声望或有真正智慧的人，他的秘密隐藏在我们的发现之上。他的举止令人生畏，而我们却不了解。在他面前，我们的舌头被绑住，我们的四肢被麻痹。思想在他面前消亡，意志被解开，摇摆不定，我们像凯撒身边的安东尼一样被吓倒。在孤独中，我们为这种懦弱感到羞耻，并决心将其摒弃；但当这个伟大的人回来时，我们的膝盖会被敲击，我们会像以前一样软弱。逃避这种羞辱是自杀。勇敢的孩子会尽力去面对它。眩晕感逐渐减弱，他在这块闪亮的金属上看到了一些缺陷，一些粗糙或柔软的地方；他开始揣摩这个暴虐的恩人的动机，衡量其轨道。他们是真正的朋友，让我们望而生畏，为了一点小事，我们对他们的屈服超过了应有的程度。

这条规则是普遍的，即没有人可以向下钦佩。所有的热情都会上升，并提升它的主题。在你看来如此低级的活动却被提升到了低级的天性之上。那么，此时此刻，标准漂浮在哪里又有什么关系呢，因为它不可能保持固定？

完美退却了，就像地平线在旅行者面前退却一样，并引诱我们不断前进。它甚至比我们最大的努力还快，所以从越来越远的地方向我们招手。我们可以把自己交给理想，也可以转向食欲和睡眠；但在恢复理智的每一刻，我们又重新站起来，再次踏上无尽的上升之路。

当一个人尝到了力量的滋味，当他看到自然界的供应如此接近所有的需要时，他渴望得到加强。这种渴望就是祈祷。它打开自己的门，从上帝的手中获取供应。任何聪明的人都不会吝惜为身体提供住所和食物的必要使用，因为我们欢快地走向大自然，用我们的牛奶喝下秩序、正义、美丽和仁慈。我们不能吃我们身体赖以生存的壳，而不表达这些汁液，这些汁液像树液和血液一样在球体中循环。我们不能接触任何物体，但一些生命之电的火花会射入我们体内。每个生物都是一个电池，不是用单纯的植物或动物，而是用道德生命来充电。我们形而上的存在是由隐藏在岩石和森林、溪流和天空、火、水、土和空气中的东西提供的。当我们挖树根、采坚果、打猎、烤肉的时候，我们的血液不仅仅是在心脏里被加速。更深的水流被涌动。我们人性的泉源在大自然中被打开了；因为那些流经景观、进入眼睛和耳朵的东西，显然是作为意识进入的同一液体，是我们赖以生存的生命。当我们享受这种精神上的清新，并保持自己对它的开放，我们可以不受损害地挖掘；但如果我们的思想紧紧围绕着要做的事情，围绕着商品和安全，围绕着得到和拥有，这些途径似乎就会关闭，而这些途径是灵魂的养料。那么我们就会忘记我们不可估量的机会和确定性；我们就会疯掉，使头脑成为泥沼。如果一个人把他的能力引向任何有限的而不是无限的目的，他就会使他的能力残缺不全。无论他是否被财富、名誉或地位所迷惑，如果他不把自己完全交给成长和成为一个人，不管有什么小的优势，他就在这个世界上迷失了方向。"席勒说："要忠实于你年轻时的梦想"。那个梦想是慷慨的，而不是污秽的。我们必须屈服于要求我们的完美，不能忍受任何狭隘的目标来推迟那永不满足的要求。

但生活的力量会让每个流浪者回来，这一点他很清楚。每个罪人都把他的行李箱装好，准备回到美好的世界。贫穷的商人真正的意思是用他们的黄金购买爱情。我们感觉到有一条链子在束缚着我们，即使我们没有紧紧抓住它，我们也会在时间和权力上变得挥霍无度。生命的本质，正如我们所享受的，是对生命中不灭的上升趋势的感觉；当还没有敬畏或奉献的时候，这给人以勇气。

性格的发展涉及环境的巨大变化。我们不能在一个角落里成长或工作。人们发动战争、建造城市和建立政府，并不是仅仅为了贪婪，也不是主要为了贪婪，而是为了尝试他们能做什么，成为什么，向自己和同伴证明自己的价值。我们渴望取悦和帮助，但更多的是，一开始就想确定我们能够取悦和帮助。如果他听到有人在公共场合有效地讲话，这个有雄心壮志的男孩永远不会休息，直到他也能讲话，或做一些同样困难和值得做的其他事情。为了检验能力，我们必须走到机构的世界中去，在工人的身边，拿起他们的工具，与他们一争高下。每一种新的情况和工作都让人眼花缭乱，直到我们发现其中的诀窍。男孩渴望从农场逃到大学，从大学逃到城市和实践生活。然后他从书桌前，或从剧院的坑里，抬头看向时尚的快乐世界--甚至比思想的世界更难征服。最后，他进入了神圣的圈子，并在那里发现了少量的原创力量和大量的常规。这些精细的部分就像那些球员一样，都是用心学习的。发明他们的人，与他们一起自发的人，似乎已经死了，把他们的礼仪和他们的衣柜留给了窄胸的孩子，衣服和礼节都不适合他们。因此，在每一个部门，我们都发现蜗牛在牡蛎壳里受冻。法官们不知道正义的含义。传教士认为宗教是一种欲望和恐惧的痉挛。一个年轻人很快就失去了对头衔、假发和礼服的尊重，而去寻找一个肌肉发达的主脑。有人写了法律，树立了高尚行为的榜样，并创立了每一种宗教。只有一个有能力创立的人，才能理解、维持或使用任何机构。教会、国家、社会制度都在混混们的头上摔得粉碎，他们无法维护，因为他们根本无法建造它们，而这些垃圾阻碍了生活中的每一条道路。一个诚实的、有活力的思想家会清除这些废墟，在地球上重新开始。当男孩从家里挣脱出来，公平地进入这个吸引他的世界时，他发现这个世界不适合生活在没有革命的地方。他在这个世界上就像在老家的生活方式中一样局促不安。对一个人来说，喂猪和捡拾薯片似乎不是工作，但他发现，几乎所有的种族活动都不过如此；没有更多的想法和目的。人们发现教会、国家和习俗都是现成的，他们陷入了这个行列，不问任何问题，而是毫无理由地认为事情是理所当然的；他们的模仿就像捡拾薯片一样容易。这不是在做什么，而只是从山上滑下来。世界的方式不适合一个英勇的男孩。为了腾出肘部空间，获得喘息的机会，他成为一个改革者；当他现在找不到新的世界可以征服时，他将创造一个世界，把每一块石头都铺在真理和正义中。同一个探索者，曾被他的眼睛所激发，从一个谷场或一个鞋店望着他的同类的多姿多彩的活动，他在艺术和科学上跑了这么一圈，在每个新的事业中追求他存在的秘密，现在对所有已经完成的事情感到不满。他又开始展望未来--他成了一个先知，而不是他以前的历史学家。他很容易看到，一个真正的男子汉会摒弃我们的教学和崇拜方式，会拆除并重建每一个城镇和房屋，会撕毁监狱，废除贫民制和奴隶制。他看到政府的权力躺在拼写书和圣经中，未被使用，也未被发现。现在他找到了一个工作，不是为一个手指，而是为战斗的海格力斯和歌唱的阿波罗，配得上密涅瓦和乔夫。他将尝试人能够为人做什么。

每个勇敢的女孩的历史都与她的玩伴和伙伴的历史平行。她叹息着同情，叹息着有一群英勇的青年和少女，值得所有的渴望。她的音乐、绘画和意大利语只是她希望为这样一个团体打开的大门。她渴望社会能让时间变得抒情，渴望任务能让时间变得史诗般壮丽。充满想象力的年轻人的态度和行动，每时每刻都被恋人、诗人、受启发和鼓舞的同伴的无形存在所抬高。他们如此，我们也将如此；当我们走在他们中间，与他们一起，我们将洗净所有的不公正、卑鄙和矫揉造作。女人和男人一样厌倦了我们愚蠢的文明，厌倦了它的恭维、束缚和妥协。她们和我们一样沉重地感受着例行公事的负担，也和我们一样在这种负担下保持着自己的弹性。她们不能做的事情，一个心地善良的男人，她们的某个情人，将为她们做；而她们将以赞赏的态度支持他，期待着人类迟来的正义。每个慷慨的女孩都与她的性别分享女性意识的新发展，庸俗的人将其命名为妇女权利运动，这是一种嘲笑。她将寻求成为更真正的女人，维护她的特殊权力和特权，从她自己的角度接近共同的理想，提供一个纯粹的女高音来配合男人的低音。

我们都在寻找一个未来，不仅比我们自己的过去好，而且比任何过去都好。人性是我们的遗产，但不是历史性的人性。人似乎是破碎的，散落在世界各地。伟大的生命只是单一美德的杰出典范，由于对每一个英雄的崇拜，我们在某一方面都是残缺的。如果他是自由的，他也是粗野的；如果是细腻的，他被粗野的世界所覆盖；圣人是胆怯的、狂热的，害怕被溅到第一个水坑里；英雄是亵渎的。我们必须融化所有的旧金属，以制造一个新的人，并发扬共同的意识。每一次失败都是最后成功的一部分。我们走过一条堤道，其中的每根木头都是在这项事业中倒下的一些士兵。怀疑结果的人就是怀疑上帝。我们遗憾地说："如果我能够继续保持最好的状态就好了！"在波浪与波浪之间，我们为前进的潮水的小小起伏感到痛苦。但这潮水是全能的。它肯定会上升，即使它只是一千年中的一寸。社会的变化就像地质学上的动荡和大陆的沉降一样；然而，人类在道德上与野蛮人相差甚远，就像他在身体上优于萨乌尔人那样。我们没有看到玉米的生长或世界的旋转；然而，如果运动被赋予了原始的本质，我们必须寻找难以想象的结果。智慧会照顾到智慧，并且会延伸。考虑一下二十年来你自己教区历史中的智力增长。看看新英格兰地区的旧观点是如何消亡的，而新观点又是如何进来的。每个人都在自己的观点中得到强化，但没有人能够坚持自己的观点。在任何社区中，它们被抱得越紧，变化就越快。瑞典堡、歌德、爱默生等人的思想像孢子一样漂浮在空气中，只要有光就会茁壮成长。最蹩脚的教条主义者也无法逃脱；因为，如果他睁开眼睛去寻找他的肉，一些阳光就会爬进来。我们最愚蠢的人体内也储存着可燃物，真理的火花会点燃我们沉睡的猜疑。既然伟大的现实是在人身上组织起来的，并等待着在他身上揭示出来，那么把同样的现实从我们的耳朵里拒之门外也是无济于事的。思想家被认为是危险的，并被排除在公共教育的课桌之外；但男孩们已经被同样的思想所占据。他们在讲座上不会听到什么新的东西，他们被长者的恐怖所鼓舞，而不是被智者所说的任何话所鼓舞。在追求真理的过程中，困难在于提出问题；因为在提出问题的能力中，包含着达成答案的能力。认真学习的人要解决的问题是医生们从未解决过的问题，他知道他们的论述不是针对他的。如果你不懂我所寻求的，你可以和青蛙一起呱呱叫：你被排除在我的游戏之外。

不幸的是，老人们怀疑这个他们不理解的理论的男孩是他们理论的主人。他们感到困惑和惊慌；他们在黑暗中出击。在所有的争论中，强者的地位是无可动摇的。他的对手没有看到他的位置，而是攻击一个稻草人，他自己的一些臆想，让聪明的观众感到好笑。我们的竞争者总是对整个问题说得很宽泛。因此，智者永远不可能有对手；因为无论谁能够面对和找到他，都已经站到了他那边。通过物质上的防御，我们可以暂时避开光线，去那些只重复我们自己观点的地方，从而使自己免于被说服的危险；但如果一个强大的思想家能够获得仅仅是蛮横的优势，让听众被限制在座位上听他说话，他将不可避免地把他们全部带到他的结论。他们知道后就会跑掉。但是，新闻界使我们的整个文明世界成为一个大讲堂，任何读书人都无法从中逃脱，而对进步的唯一防御就是呆呆地专注于贸易或琐事。然而，这种坚持是屏住呼吸，在思想上不能再继续下去，就像在身体上一样。忽悠和虚假对忽悠者来说是不可容忍的；他们必须回到思想中去，而那在一个方向上是适当的，是通过一万条途径向一个方向接近的。它是宗教，而不是无知或教条。我们不能在不探索神圣的秩序和承认其神性的情况下进行思考，而不发现自己被它带去服务和崇拜。所有的善都在真理中得到保证，而真理紧紧跟随我们，把我们赶到许多角落，最后会把我们带走。因此，爱让所有的人感到惊讶，每一种美德都有一把通向每颗心的钥匙。从冲突的经验中，在野蛮和教条主义中，从漂浮的羽毛和坠落的石头中，我们推断出道德引力的伟大法则，它将精神与精神联系在一起，将所有灵魂与最好的东西联系在一起。对这一规律的承认就是崇拜。我们为它欢欣鼓舞，没有一点自私的色彩。我们完全满意地崇拜它。崇拜既不是信仰，也不是希望，而是这种对完美的确信。我们在头顶和脚下探索一种和谐，这种和谐只有通过消除不和谐才能得到充实。时间的拖累，组织的束缚，都只是虚假的五音。否认主宰是一种亵渎。我们不能逃避我们的好处；我们将被净化。当我们的命运得到如此保证时，我们就会对睡眠和罪恶感到不耐烦，并加倍努力。我们把自己献给这种确定性，我们的忠诚就是宗教。在人的身上没有任何东西可以从理想性的提升中省略。那是他的中心和完全的扩展，是进入他的最深处，是比他自己更多的自己。所有的敬意都是针对这个在肉体中显现的造物主，虽然没有被包围。我们在别人身上崇拜他，而在自己身上却鄙视他。人的其他运动都有一个外部中心，是一些饥饿或激情，从它在自然界或身体中的位置作用于我们，我们可以面对它，用身体否认和拒绝它；但这是人从他的源头流下来。

我们不要被诱惑用太精细的名字来称呼事物，以免掩饰它们。所有伟大的东西都是朴素而熟悉的。理想的倾向是对生活的简单热爱，首先是欲望，然后是满足。代表它的人不是寻求者，而是发现者，他们继续寻找更多的东西；因为在诗人那里，欲望已经满足了自己。享受造就了艺术家。他在我们面前走过，伸向可能性的深渊；但他已经更有力地伸向了。他开始知道，在普遍的吸引力中，在所有面孔向着我们的未来的热切转向中，有什么承诺。有一个中心，没有人可以偏离它，因为它是视觉的光束。无论你怎么看，这个中心无处不在。宇宙中充斥着来自它的光线，而每个物体上的普通光线都是这种亮度的折射或反射。

肤浅的人认为理想是另一种食欲，可以用漂亮的饰品来喂养，就像身体用肉和睡眠来满足一样；但这种庄严的冲动的代表在其中感受到他的不朽，并通过他所有可爱的寓言、神话、寓言、图片、雕像、礼仪、歌曲和交响乐，他试图传达他自己的感觉，即通过特定的重力人类必须上升。因此，难怪我们热爱艺术，因为它为我们提供了存在的强化，而鄙视那些装模作样的人，对他们来说，艺术只是消遣，而不是预言。

因为，尽管有来自唯物主义者、被贸易或传统所束缚的人的种种劝阻，我们还是相信了这一崇高的愿望，并一直追随它。我们甚至在自己身上也感受到了生命的神圣性，在我们的敬仰中总是充满了敬畏之情。不能让我们怀疑那些在树林中与我们同行或在早晨看着我们的东西的神性。草和卵石、水和岩石、云和阵雨、雪和风，都是兄弟般的存在，不容否认。他们唱着同样的歌，充满了胸膛，而我们对他们的爱是纯洁的。我们寻找的男人和女人，难道他们不值得尊敬吗？艺术家来了，他要我们相信理想的趋势，而不是羞辱在其中活动的人。因此，他不是一个小人物，不会被拥有科学的医生或拥有生产和使用的经济学家们推到一边。他为男人提供男人的身份，为女人提供女人的身份。


我们把理想性命名为对生命的热爱。不，除了生命本身，它又是什么呢--除了真正的生活，还有爱吗？什么词对我们有任何价值，除非它是性格中不可避免的扩张的记录。宇宙已经承诺给每一颗心，而艺术家代表了它的承诺。他唱歌，因为他看到人的孩子在前进，可能是在盲目的道路上，但在可靠的指导下，在不可熄灭的欲望的推动下，走向最大的经验。他不再惧怕老毛病了。他感觉到，宇宙中没有任何东西，无论你用什么丑陋的名字来称呼它，都不能粉碎或限制在胸中起作用的酵母的提升。所有的眼睛都在注视着他，对别人来说是一个巨大的也许对他来说已经成为不可避免的确定性。